


the wind knows

by lacrimalis



Category: Klaus (2019)
Genre: Banter, Fluff, M/M, Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-09
Updated: 2019-12-13
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:47:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21726241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lacrimalis/pseuds/lacrimalis
Summary: The wind brings sailors home to port when the sea is calm, and it brings carrier pigeons home to roost when their rounds are done.And sometimes, the wind brings people together, too.
Relationships: Jesper Johanssen/Mogens
Comments: 66
Kudos: 256





	1. Chapter 1

Mogens had chalked up the stiff breeze that heralded Jesper Johanssen’s arrival to the impending change of the seasons. He’d grunted in displeasure, slouching even further into his seat at the window of the boathouse. It’d be warmer below the deck of his boat, but as the only ferryman to Smeerensburg, he was technically under the purview of the Royal Delivery Service, and last time an inspector had come ‘round they’d given Mogens an ass chewing to rival the bite of Jack Frost for ‘abandoning his post’.

“Wouldn’t _have_ to abandon my post, if those royal pains in my rear would put their money where their mouth is,” Mogens grumbled. The boathouse was in such a state of disrepair that it hardly kept out wild animals, let alone the cold. Public works just didn’t reach this far north. Anyone wearing the royal kingdom’s blues had better things to be doing than trudge through the snow just to improve _other_ peoples’ living conditions.

The thought arrived as just such a one came trudging through the snow to harangue Mogens. Even at a glance, he didn't resemble the postman who normally did deliveries on this route. The ferryman snorted. Poor bastard must’ve been lost. He waved the man lazily away with directions to the nearest town – where the man was probably _actually_ trying to go. “You’re welcome,” he drawled, settling back in to maybe catch a few winks.

“I’m not lost.”

“Trust me,” Mogens sighed without looking up, “you are.”

Mogens was already drifting when the man spoke up again – maybe Mogens’ instructions hadn’t been clear enough. Had he said something about the boat? He tipped his hat up to get a better look at the man. “Whassat?” he asked, voice slurred with sleep.

“New postman. Smeerensburg,” the man clarified testily. Mogens stared as the man talked around his point slowly as if addressing a particularly slow child. It was something of a marvel that this scrawny guy had the energy to be gesturing so emphatically in the cold he clearly wasn’t used to. Must be pretty pent-up, this one.

In an instant, Mogens sized the man up: spoiled, ornery, and not an ounce of fat on his bones. He wouldn’t last a week.

Mogens grinned and straightened up, dropping his feet from where they were propped up on the windowsill. “Y’don’t say? Well, beggin’ yer pardon, Mister Postman!” he said, affecting an ostentatiously welcoming tone. He leaned over the windowsill right into the man’s face, whose expression contorted like he’d smelled something foul. Ah. That’d be breakfast. “I’ll get right on that, now won’t I?”

Hazing uninitiated postmen was _already_ Mogen’s favorite pastime. But this one had earned a little extra TLC for being such a brat.

He could hardly wait.

* * *

An unseasonably temperate wind carried them across the channel into Smeerensburg’s bay. The new postman bitched and moaned about the cold for the entire trip, and Mogens took enormous pleasure in teasing him relentlessly. Privately, though, Mogens fretted over the weather. The waters were strangely calm, and it put him ill at ease.

Was a warm front coming in? Would Smeerensburg receive a freak tropical storm to tear down all the houses just before winter? Mogens might be getting a few extra customers fleeing to the mainland, if that were the case.

Another gentle breeze blew by, kissing Mogens with snowflakes, and a chill ran down his spine at the thought of what it might portend. The postman flinched violently.

“Is the weather always like this?” the postman despaired.

“Eh, we’re having a bit of a heat wave,” Mogens said.

It was only partly exaggeration.

* * *

“Why do you always do this?” Alva asks.

“Whassat?” Mogens says around the lip of his beer mug.

She sweeps around the table and sits across him with her own mug in hand. “Antagonize the new postmen.”

“What, and you don’t?” Mogens challenges, taking a long draught of his beer and raising his eyebrows at her.

Alva scoffs. “No,” she says, though her brow furrows and she rethinks her response. “Maybe. _Only_ because they’re a nuisance, because _you_ don’t bother telling them anything!”

“And them not knowing anything is a nuisance to you, how?” Mogens asks, throwing back his beer with a few gulps and waving to the barman to bring him another. “Maybe I’m just keepin’ your teacher’s senses _arrowhead_ sharp! Who else would you have to teach, if I did all the work for you?”

Alva rolls her eyes.

“‘Sides,” Mogens goes on. “I have so few joys in life, Miss Alva! Give me this, at least!” He grins rakishly as the barman sets down a new mug and takes away the old, and Mogens flips the old-timer a filthy penny. “You know I’m not much of a teacher, m’self, anyway. I prefer to let the young ones figure things out on their own. Builds character, don'tcha know?”

Alva sips her beer and stares into the drab, gray distance. "That man certainly needs it," she agrees ruefully.

"See? I'm performing a public service! Really, people should be _thanking_ me for going above and beyond my station."

The wind tickles the back of his neck, and Mogens shivers, tugging his collar closer around his ears. "Hey, isn't this breeze out of season?"

Alva stares at Mogens with unimpressed, half-lidded eyes.

"Ah, nevermind," he says, brushing the feeling off. "My sailor's instincts aren't what they used to be."

"Hm," Alva says absently. They drink their beer in companionable silence and eventually go their separate ways.

Mogens tries to ignore the strangely gentle wind that follows him all the way back to the boathouse.

* * *

The new postman will be settling into his cold, uninhabitable, broken down hovel right about now, and Mogens smiles vindictively as he warms his hands by the light of his own roaring hearth. The Smeerensburg boathouse isn't much better than the one on the mainland, but Mogens does his best to keep the place in relatively good repair, since he sleeps in it and all. It’s got a wood stove and a fireplace, and enough quilts that the bitter cold usually minds its damn business outside. Small as it is, that just means it takes less firewood to keep the place warm. It suits Mogens just fine.

Outside, the wind roars and buffets the walls with droves of snow, and he has to laugh at himself for worrying about the temperate breeze he’d been feeling all day. He could always trust Smeerensburg to be cold and miserable, if nothing else.

Mogens considers turning in for the night so he can get an early start – the postman won’t antagonize himself, after all. Or maybe he will, Mogens thinks with a quiet chuckle. If he was sent here, odds are high he did something pretty bad to anger the higher-ups from the Royal Postal Service. Maybe he’ll be tormenting himself as he shivers in his glorified chicken coop of a post office, wondering why he did whatever stupid thing that consigned him to this frozen Hell.

The mental image starts to make Mogens pity the man, just a little. He snorts. If he’s starting to feel sorry for a guy that pathetic, he must be getting tired after all. He rises from his threadbare armchair with a groan, stretching his arms upward until his spine cracks. Scratching his chin, he idly searches around in the low light for the fireplace’s curfew to cover it up for the evening. Tempting as it is to keep the hearth roaring while he sleeps, he’d rather not tempt the embers into catching his carpet on fire. Besides, the wood stove will keep him plenty warm.

When he finally catches the glint of the curfew’s copper surface, a loud banging interrupts Mogen’s train of thought. He blinks, straightening up and grabbing his crowbar instead.

The Ellingboes and Krums may have grudgingly acknowledged Mogens and Alva’s declarations of neutrality – Mogens was their only means of importing goods from the mainland, and Alva was the only fishmonger who would sell to either family without batting an eye – but that didn’t mean they fully accepted it. Ellingboes still targeted Mogens on occasion for his dark hair, and the Krums targeted Alva for her reddish blond. Young ones, usually, who either didn’t know how indispensable these neutral parties were to the community, or who wanted to prove their mettle to their families by playing target practice on relatively low-risk targets.

Mogens shifts his grip on the crowbar and makes his way to the door. It’s strange that anyone would come all the way down to the docks in the snow at night, but strange doesn’t cover half the things that happen on this miserable island. And it isn’t the first time his delightful neighbors have come to harass him at odd hours.

The banging comes again – and looking to catch his unwelcome visitor unawares, Mogens throws the door open, lifting the crowbar over his head, and – 

And the postman stumbles into Mogen’s boathouse with the force of his own knocking. He collapses to the floor, shivering and whimpering like a fawn.

Mogens lowers his arm and shuts the door.

“Well, well, well,” he drawls. “Haven’t even been on the job for a day, and you’re already throwing in the towel? I think that _might_ just be a new record! Congratulations, Postman.” He crouches down to be at eye-level with the man. “Unfortunately, the ferry doesn’t run in inclement weather conditions, _or_ at night. So sorry, but you’ll have to come back in the morning.”

The postman opens his mouth, but his teeth are chattering so badly that Mogens can’t make out the words. He sighs and heaves himself to his feet, dragging the postman over to the hearth so he can thaw his quivering blue lips.

“W-Warm,” is all the quaking man manages.

“I know it’s drafty, but don’t you have a fireplace in that shack of yours?” Mogens says, crossing his arms.

“N-No firewood…” says the shivering pile of limbs on Mogen’s floor.

Oh, right. The locals looted the place between postmen, like they always did. And it probably didn’t help that Mogens had taken the door off its rusting, failing hinges…

Ah, damn. Now he feels _responsible_. Mogens musses up his hair and goes to toss some more wood on the wood stove. When he returns, he takes away the postman’s wet hat, cloak and scarf and hangs them up to dry. The man looks even scrawnier without the articles of his station to make him look a little wider and taller. Mogens throws a quilt over those narrow shoulders so he doesn't have to watch his narrow arms quiver like violin strings.

Then he settles back in his armchair to wait for the man to become coherent.

“So you came all the way to the docks,” Mogens says when the man’s shivers have mostly subsided, “in the snow, at night... in the hopes that I’d have a warm fire for you to sit by.”

The man looks up, eyes red-rimmed and nose and cheeks red from the cold. He sniffs, and Mogens tells himself the man is _not_ on the verge of tears. His eyes are probably just watery from walking into the wind.

“And it didn’t occur to you that I might sleep in the boathouse on the mainland?” Mogens sweeps an arm in a wide, lazy gesture, as if inviting the man to use his head.

“D-Didn’t get that far,” the man says, sniffling again. “I think my brain is frozen.”

Mogens snorts, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “I think that’s the least of the problems with your brain.” And when he looks up, it’s like Mogens is an oracle, because the man’s hands are hovering right over the roaring flames. “Hey, hey!” Mogens sinks to the floor and tugs the man toward him.

The postman yelps. “What–”

“You tryin’ to burn yourself?” Mogens grabs the postman’s wrists to inspect his fingers. They’re tinged with blue from the cold, and Mogens can’t tell if he’s burned them. “Smeerensburg doesn’t have a doctor, y’know. It’s a pain to get medicine, too – so if you get sick or hurt, you’re on your own.”

Just hours ago Mogens was mocking this man, wishing him well in the broken-down hovel he’d be forced to live in until the Royal Postal Service recalled him. So why is he acting like he cares if the man dies of exposure or idiocy?

“I can’t feel my fingers,” the postman complains, like that justifies him almost catching his sleeve on fire and burning the boathouse down.

“And why didn’t you bring gloves?” Mogens chides.

“... Don’t have any.”

Mogens groans long-sufferingly and scrubs a hand down his face. Is this guy helpless, or what? With his hands now free, the postman tugs Mogens’ quilt tighter around his shoulders and sniffs in unfairly fitting punctuation to the thought.

Resigned, Mogens splays his legs out and rearranges the postman until he’s sitting with his back to Mogens’ gut. “Might as well get comfy,” he says in explanation to the postman’s questioning noise. “Take your boots off, too. I don’t imagine your toes are in any better shape than your fingers.”

The postman, remarkably, does as Mogens says without any wise-cracking – or he tries to, at least. His shaking fingers slip on his wet boots, struggling to muster the grip strength to remove them. Mogens swats his hands away and manhandles the postman’s leg so it’s crossed over his thigh. He removes the man’s boot and wet sock with ease, tossing them in the general direction of the hearth and gesturing for the other foot. The postman obliges silently, and the second boot and sock go the way of the first.

His toes are even bluer than his fingertips, and Mogens _tsks._ “Did you seriously bring _cotton_ socks on assignment to Smeerensburg?”

“As opposed to?” the postman sniffs. It sounds like he wants to ask the question dryly, but his currently pathetic circumstances are taking the wind right out of his sarcastic sails.

“Uh, wool, for starters,” Mogens says. “Man, your last boss must’ve _really_ hated you to not at least _tell_ you what to expect.” It’s Mogens’ understanding that regional-appropriate attire is actually _issued_ to postmen on assignments markedly different from their previous ones. But to have no preparation at all? It was kind of cruel, wasn’t it? Were the higher-ups _trying_ to kill this guy?

The postman deflates, folding into himself. “... Yeah,” he says quietly.

Sensing a sore spot, Mogens quickly eases off the subject. He’s not opposed to a little mean-spirited ribbing – but since the guy will probably be here for a minute, Mogens is kind of on the hook if he starts crying, and he _really_ doesn’t want to deal with that. “Ah, well. You’re here now, so there’s nothing for it. Here – gimme your hands.”

Those pale, shaking piano fingers emerge from the quilt’s protective shell, and Mogens wraps his hands around them. The postman’s toes curl, his legs twitching as he hisses, “Ah – that’s hot!”

“That’s the idea,” says Mogens.

“It _stings,_ ” the man complains.

“Them’s the breaks, city boy. If you want to plunge your hands back into the fire, be my guest.”

The man grumbles and squirms, but eventually he settles down and endures the ache of warming his frozen fingers from frostbite-imminent temperatures.

“Weird time to ask,” Mogens says, “but I don’t think I ever got your name.”

“... It’s Jesper.”

Mogens snorts. “Jesper? Sounds like ‘jester’. Is that why you’re such a clown?”

Jesper makes a scandalized sound. “Oh yeah? What’s your name?”

“Like I’m gonna tell you now.”

Jesper huffs. “You know, that is _very_ rude–”

“And you’re _so_ polite?” Mogens interrupts, tugging on Jesper’s leg and wrapping his hand around one of his feet.

“Agh!” Jesper yelps. “You’re _hot._ ”

“Well, this is all a bit sudden, but I have to admit I’m flattered…”

“I didn’t mean it like _that._ ” Jesper scoffs, his face coloring – even as he pulls up his remaining leg to press his other foot into the one Mogens is holding, in a bid to get him to warm both of them at once. Mogens snickers and relinquishes Jesper’s hands, now much closer to room temperature, and seizes both his feet instead.

Mogens expects Jesper will stretch his hands back out toward the fire, or maybe tuck them under his arms – but they land on Mogens’ thighs, rubbing up and down on the fabric of his pants in an attempt to generate warmth through friction.

The unfamiliar contact sparks his nerve endings to life, sending warm, tingling sensation straight to the base of his spine.

Mogens idly rubs the life back into Jesper's feet as he wonders what to do about _that._

The simple answer is that he doesn't _have_ to do anything. He's past the age where his sexual appetite still feels like a biological imperative. And Jesper is obviously too thoughtless, or at least too distracted from the cold, to consider that what he's doing with his hands might be having an effect on Mogens. Odds are pretty good Mogens won't even have to explain his predicament.

Then Jesper tightens his grip on Mogens' thighs, and Mogens sucks in a breath. "Hey, go easy on the goods, wouldja?"

Jesper recoils as if burned. "Sorry," he murmurs.

Mogens chuckles. "Ah, no worries. Your hands still cold?"

"Kind of…"

"Huh. Here – turn around."

Jesper shuffles around until he's facing Mogens, his back toward the fireplace. The firelight lines his silhouette, shining through his ears and tossing highlights on his pretty blond hair.

Mogens lifts the hem of his own sweater to expose his stomach. He pats his belly fat. "Put your feet here."

"What?! That's stupid," Jesper protests.

"I mean, if you don't _want_ to warm your feet up, it's no skin off my nose…"

Jesper makes a bunch of unhappy, indignant little sounds – but he nevertheless scoots closer, draping his thighs over Mogens' and planting his feet on the sides of Mogens' stomach. 

They both hiss in response to the sudden change in temperature. Jesper's feet are like ice against Mogens' sensitive sides. He thought Jesper would put his feet on the front of his stomach, which wasn't as sensitive, so he could keep his distance. But it seems neither propriety nor resentment will prevent the shivering postman from seeking Mogens’ warmth.

"I-Is that okay?" Jesper asks, wincing at the stinging he's no doubt feeling in his toes.

"Yeah. Just caught me by surprise." Mogens lowers his sweater and rubs Jesper's cold feet through the fabric, eliciting a shiver from the other man. "Better now?"

"Yeah," Jesper sighs, rubbing his hands together.

Mogens takes Jesper's hands in his own again, pressing those shaking fingers between his broad, warm palms.

Jesper groans, curling even further into Mogens. "How are you so warm?" he wonders.

"Well, sailors are a bit like whales, see?" Mogens says. "Lots of blubber to keep us insulated out there on the cold, unforgiving sea."

Jesper snorts inelegantly and rolls his eyes.

Mogens’ hands are starting to lose their warmth – not to the point that it's uncomfortable, but he can't warm Jesper like this. He cups Jesper's hands and pulls them to his lips, where he breathes hot air into them.

"Eugh," Jesper says, lips curling with disgust even as he shivers in ostensible pleasure at the warmth freely offered. "Your breath smells like beer and fish."

"Oh? That's strange. I could've sworn I had roses and baby's breath for dinner..." Despite his complaints, Jesper only turns further _toward_ Mogens, like a flower toward the sun. Mogens breathes into his cupped palms again, and Jesper shudders, collapsing against Mogens' gut and finally relaxing. "It's Mogens, by the way."

"Huh? Wha?" Jesper murmurs into Mogens' sweater.

"You, Jesper. Me, Mogens," Mogens says slowly. Jesper glares up at him. "Connecting the dots yet?"

"I hate you," Jesper grumbles.

"I know," Mogens says lightly. He pulls Jesper's hands up to his shoulders and settles them on the back of his neck, wincing at the cold touch – but he figures Jesper's hands will get warmer this way. With his hands free, Mogens readjusts the quilt around Jesper and wraps his arms around his back.

This has the only _slightly_ unforeseen consequence of bringing Jesper's face a hair's breadth from Mogens'. 

Jesper's fingers twitch. Along with his sense of touch, his mental faculties seem to be gradually returning as well. Jesper blinks a few times and quietly clears his throat. "Uh, not that I don't appreciate it," Jesper says, his breath ghosting over Mogens' lips, "but this is kinda close, isn't it…?"

"Oh, sure," Mogens says, grinning when Jesper grimaces at his foul breath. "You wanna warm up, though, don't you?" His hands span almost the full width of Jesper's narrow back, and he makes use of this fact by rubbing up and down to coax warmth into him through the quilt.

Jesper shivers and huddles closer. "Obviously," he scoffs.

"Somethin' you'll learn real quick up here," Mogens says, lowering his voice in deference to their proximity, "is that propriety doesn't _actually_ keep you warm at night." Mogens lifts his hands and spreads his arms out. "If you'd prefer another arrangement, I'm _wide_ open to suggestions."

Jesper tightens his grip on Mogens. "... No, this is fine," he grumbles, and only stops pouting when Mogens' hands return. Jesper glances away, but it's impossible to avoid Mogens' eyes when they're this close. Mogens smiles winningly down at him. Jesper huffs, and scowls like he's working up to say something difficult. "I... Thanks, Mogens."

"Aw, that's sweet," Mogens says, giving Jesper a squeeze, "but don't mistake me – I'm acting _purely_ out of self-interest."

"What?" Jesper says, looking alarmed.

If Mogens had a penny every time the man said that…

"Of course!" Mogens goes on. "Can't give you a hard time on the job if you keel over before you've started! And corpses are terrible company for boat rides, let me tell you. _Tons_ of paperwork, too…"

"I'm touched," Jesper says flatly, but he also looks a mite less alarmed, settling back down and wiggling closer.

Mogens sighs dramatically. "I know. Must be getting sentimental in my old age."

They sit like that for a long while, basking in the glow of the fire and sharing their body heat. The wind howls outside, and Jesper clings even closer in response to the screams of the bitter cold. Mogens tightens his grip reflexively, and Jesper sighs, burying his nose in the crook of Mogens' neck.

Eventually, though, Mogens' back starts to protest from sitting on the floor for so long. "Oof," he mutters. "All right, up and at 'em."

"Hmn?" Jesper says muzzily. "You kickin' me out?" All his layers have been stripped away by the cold and his need for warmth, so the question comes out remarkably vulnerable. It's a stark change from the arrogant, tetchy postman Mogens met that morning.

"Nah," Mogens says, patting him on the back. "Just lookin' for a change in scenery. C’mon.” He tucks his legs underneath himself and rearranges Jesper until his arms are supporting his knees and shoulders. Getting to his feet is a bit of a production, and his back pain flares up as soon as he's upright. It takes him by surprise, and he collapses unexpectedly into the armchair with a hefty _'oof'_. Jesper jostles in his arms and makes a small noise of alarm.

"Hey, careful!" Jesper says, and Mogens blinks in bewilderment at the objection that sounds, at first blush, like concern for Mogens' well-being. "This is – this is first class cargo you're dealing with!"

Of course, Mogens thinks with a chuckle. He's concerned for _himself._ "Really? I don't see 'handle with care' written on the side." Mogens makes a show of craning his head around and turning Jesper this way and that, like he’s trying to find a shipping label.

Jesper squirms in protest until Mogens stops moving him around, and he sniffs with imperious offense. “It’s _implied,”_ he insists.

“Ah, of course,” Mogens says reasonably, nodding along. Then he winks. “I’ll be sure to handle it with care, then.”

Jesper’s face flushes deep red – Mogens guesses he’s not cold anymore, then – and he turns away, eyes darting fitfully around the boathouse in search of something else to focus on. "H-Hey," Jesper says, "the fire's going out."

Mogens tears his gaze away from the tangle of limbs in his lap to see that the fire is, indeed, going out. It'll just be embers soon if he doesn’t stoke it. "Eh, probably for the best. It's getting late. And _you've_ got a big day tomorrow, don'tcha?"

Jesper groans in anguish. Considering how ill-prepared he is to be here, and the difficulties he doesn't even _know_ about which await him tomorrow, Mogens can't say he doesn't sympathize just a little.

"Now, this ain't a bed and breakfast, so I've only got the one bed…"

Jesper stiffens.

"... And I'm afraid I'll be taking that. Unless you wanna join me?"

"The floor is–" Jesper's voice cracks, and he clears his throat. "The uh, the floor is fine. I've had worse! I rough it all the time, in fact!"

Mogens highly doubts that. He's been getting whiffs of the man's aftershave while he was curled up in Mogens' arms, and he hasn't smelled anything that pungent with the smell of money since the last time he was in the city. But he isn't about to force the issue, either. Jesper is an adult, and if he says he's fine with the floor then Mogens will take him at his word. "All right. Get up, then, so I can get you some blankets."

Jesper climbs slowly out of Mogens' lap, as if reluctant to leave his source of warmth.

Mogens rises and nudges Jesper into his vacated seat. "Sit tight."

Mogens gathers up all his spare quilts and throw blankets, his second pillow and, upon a moment's consideration, one of the quilts from his own bed. Jesper will probably need it more than he does.

He sets the lot up by the wood stove, figuring that'll be where Jesper wants to sleep. "There," Mogens says. "Ready to bed down, champ?"

Mogens turns to Jesper, only to find the man has already fallen asleep in the armchair. His mouth is wide open, drool collecting at the corners as he snores quietly.

Huh. Mogens scratches his chin as he contemplates what to do. Not that it changes much – they were about to turn in for the night, anyway.

Mogens lights a candle with the last of the flames in the fireplace; he hangs Jesper's damp socks above the mantle; he douses the fire with the water pitcher and covers the coals with the curfew; and after some thought, Mogens digs out a spare pair of wool socks and tugs them onto Jasper's feet. Then he carries the man to the blanket pile and tucks him in.

"Sweet dreams, Postman," Mogens murmurs, patting the snoring man on the shoulder. "Yer gonna need 'em."

He makes his way over to his own bed and sets the candle down on the nightstand, sinking heavily into the creaking mattress with a sigh. He tugs off his sweater and tosses it on the floor, then throws the covers over his shoulder and rolls over.

The new postman isn’t exactly remarkable, Mogens thinks – except that the man seems _particularly_ ill-suited for work in Smeerensburg. The mailmen they usually get tend to be heavier-set, older and hardier and more experienced than Jesper by a nautical mile. Mogens knows that spite sometimes takes precedence over practicality – Smeerensburg is practically the encyclopedia entry for the phenomenon – so maybe that’s all there is to it?

Jesper pissed off a superior, and this is the consequence of his insubordination.

Ah, well. Mogens isn’t the ruminating sort, and apart from idle curiosity, there’s nothing to be satisfied by mulling over the circumstances of Jesper’s arrival. Especially when he’ll probably be gone in a month, at the very latest – two months, tops.

Mogens blows out the candle and closes his eyes to sleep.

* * *

Mogen stirs at some point in the dead of night. The wind has died down to a sharp whistling that skates across the rooftops, and the snow clouds have cleared to allow shafts of starlight in through the windows.

It's by this meager light that Mogens sees Jesper's silhouette standing over his bed. "Bit early for a mail call," he rasps, voice rough with sleep.

"Hey, uh, Mugens–"

"'s Mogens."

" _Mogens,_ Mogens, right, uh…" Jesper clears his throat. "That offer to share the bed still open?"

Mogens sidles away from the edge and lifts up the blankets. "C'mere and find out, Postman."

Jesper frets at the edge of the bed, then shucks off his blue overcoat and slides between the sheets. "Now, I – this isn't, that is… This doesn't mean that I–"

"Save it, Postman," Mogens grumbles, and he tugs the man to his chest. He hisses. "How are you already this cold again?" He rubs Jesper's arms and back to try and coax life back into his ice cold skin.

"Bad circulation, I guess?" Jesper murmurs, shuddering and relaxing into Mogens' touch. He wastes no time tangling his cold spider limbs around Mogens' warm body. 

"Well, I'll keep ya nice and warm, city boy."

"Y-Yeah. Thanks."

Mogens settles down to sleep once more, now an armful of soon-to-be-warm body richer. It's been a while since he's shared a bed with anyone, and he'd almost forgotten how nice it feels to have the comforting weight of someone breathing quietly beside him.

Well. Jesper could take a few pointers in the 'quietly' department.

"Hey, Mogens…?"

"This ain't a slumber party, champ," Mogens rumbles. "'m tired. Can it wait 'til sunrise?"

"Uh, right. Sure, yeah. No problem. Um… Good night, then."

"Mhm," Mogens hums, squeezing Jesper tight and burying his nose in the other man's hair.

The wind finally calms as the pair of them drift off to sleep, and a blanket of uncharacteristic stillness settles over Smeerensburg.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the wind knows jesper needs a big warm boy
> 
> they were flirting the whole movie they have so much chemistry??? and mogens is literally just norm macdonald, i love one terrible wise-cracking ferryman
> 
> the fic has now continued and will for the foreseeable future! maybe covering the entire movie?; we'll see!!
> 
> head on over to the next chapter and enjoy your smut! 8)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> KLAXONS BLARING THIS FIC IS NOW EXPLICIT
> 
> YOU AGREE TO EVERYTHING THAT HAPPENS FROM NOW ON
> 
> also i updated chapter 1! feel free to go back and enjoy the glow-up before sinking your teeth into this one 8)

Jesper awakens warm and comfortable, and he sighs and squirms deeper into his pillow.

"Guess you slept all right, then?"

Jesper's blood freezes in his veins, chasing away all its hard-won warmth as he jolts upright in bed and stares at the grinning ferryman laying beside him.

"Oh god," Jesper says, covering his mouth with one hand and raking through his sleep-tangled hair with the other. "Oh no. Ohhh no, no, no…"

"Wow," Mogens drawls, leaning back and folding his arms behind his head as he watches Jesper's psychological crisis unfold. He's wearing a sleeveless white undershirt, and Jesper can't tear his eyes away from the coarse black hair curling from his chest and underarms – and then his eyes are caught, mapping out the faded tattoos that sprawl across his chest and climb up his arms…

"Been a while since I've seen a bedmate look  _ that  _ distressed the morning after," Mogens says, jarring Jesper from his tangled thoughts.

"Did we…?" Jesper despairs over the answer, but his mind is too scattered to remember, and he has to know how big a fool he's made of himself on his  _ first day _ in Smeerensburg.

"What, sleep together?" Mogens snorts, and Jesper cringes just thinking about it. "Not in anything but the most  _ literal  _ sense, no."

Jesper gusts out a sigh. "Phew! That's a relief…"

"You  _ wound _ me, Postman," Mogens says, pressing a palm to his chest and pouting. "You think I'd take advantage of a fresh young thing like you? Have a little faith!"

Jesper crosses his arms. "Oh, you mean like the faith I put in your little spiel about the 'reception bell'? Because that worked out so well for me."

Mogens guffaws, apparently unable to help himself at the reminder of his trick. Jesper looks on with the most judgmental glare he can manage, but Mogens is unphased. "Okay, but you have to admit that was pretty funny."

"No, I don't, because it was  _ not _ funny!" Jesper cries, throwing his hands up in exasperation. "I could have  _ died!" _

"But you didn't," Mogens points out. He rummages around like he's looking for something that's fallen between the bed and the wall. His huge hand – which Jesper determinedly does  _ not  _ recall as warm, and strong, and gentle, and – emerges triumphantly with a flask. "And when you  _ were _ gonna die from exposure," he says, unscrewing the cap, "who did you turn to in your hour of need?" Mogens takes a hearty swig and smacks his lips with satisfaction. "Your faithful ferryman."

Jesper dislikes the emphasis Mogens places on 'your', but he suspects it's just more of the man's usual mockery. He sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. "... Yeah, I uh, I guess you  _ did _ kind of help me out," Jesper grudgingly admits.

"Oh?" Mogens says, eyebrows lifting right up to his bald spot, and Jesper immediately regrets suggesting he's feeling anything even _ approaching  _ gratitude for this slimeball. "Do my ears deceive me? That  _ almost  _ sounded like, 'thank you, Mogens, for saving my scrawny pale hide from freezing to death!'"

Jesper scoffs. "Not on your life," he grumbles. The wood stove must have burned out in the night, because a chill has crept into the tiny boathouse and given rise to gooseflesh on Jesper's skin. He rubs his arms, and Mogens gives him a speculative look. "What?" Jesper snaps.

"Just wonderin' if you wanted to have a lie-in," Mogens says with a shrug.

Jesper narrows his eyes, but for all that Mogens is a huge jerk and a terrible sport, the offer is laid out fairly neutrally. And Mogens  _ has  _ to know that he's bigger and stronger than the other man currently occupying the bed, but the lassitude of his body language goes a long way to putting Jesper at ease. Is he deliberately acting relaxed to avoid scaring Jasper off?

Psh, nah – more likely the man is just lazy, Jesper reasons.

"Unlike  _ some _ people, I have very important work to do," Jesper says primly.

Mogens glances toward the window, through which the sky barely illuminates anything at all. "Sun's not even up," he points out.

Jesper's already banking resolve wanes at the thought of going outside before dawn has broken. "Well, it's not gonna get any warmer in  _ here." _

"Huh," Mogens says, scratching his chin. "Tell ya what: if you wanna get up and light the wood stove, stoke the fire in the fireplace, all that – then you can come back here," and he pats the mattress, as if Jesper needed a hint as to where 'here' might be, "and by the time the sun comes up, it'll be warmer. And you can go off and do your  _ very  _ important work."

God, Jesper hates this man. But he isn't likely to find somewhere  _ else _ warm to spend the morning, since the post office is full of holes and has no firewood. It... might be nice, he decides, to have a warm, cozy few hours to fortify himself against the hostile cold and hostile neighbors.

After deliberating over the issue for a few more moments, while Mogens' expression gets more and more insufferably smug, Jesper tosses his hands up and stands. "Fine.  _ Fine. _ I'll just…  _ fine." _

"There's a sport," says Mogens, settling further back into bed.

* * *

Jesper is being awfully quiet, Mogens reflects. Taking awfully long, too. Mogens cracks an eye open to see the man scratching his head at the wood stove, and he groans. "You don't know how to light it, do you?"

Jesper startles at being addressed while deep in thought, and he huffs indignantly. "I'll have you know that I – I know perfectly well how to light a wood stove,  _ thank  _ you!"

Mogens drags himself out of bed and over to Jesper's side. The man has the right idea, mostly… there's wood piled on top of the ash bed, but there isn't any space  _ between _ the wood. Mogens reaches a hand in to hover over the pile and make sure it's not too hot, before he starts rearranging it. "Y'gotta leave enough space between the wood for the fire to breathe, or else it'll have trouble catching."

"Right! I knew that – the wood just… fell," Jesper says lamely.

"Uh-huh," Mogens says with a crooked smile, which only widens as Jesper continues to fume. Mogens gets the wood stove going and rises creakily to his feet. "Now that's done, why don't you take a fire starter over to the fireplace?"

Jesper grumbles and does as he's asked. Mogens watches him lean over the fireplace and pull the curfew away, then touch the long, thin fire starter to the bed of embers and half-charred wood logs. The man has much better luck under Mogens' supervision, and the fireplace is soon harboring a big, healthy fire in its heart. It casts a soft yellow glow on Jesper's face, providing a stark contrast to the cool blue of the pre-dawn light creeping in through the window.

Jesper is distracted from the fire he's stoked to life by the sight of his own socks hanging from the mantle, and he glances over at Mogens as if he can't quite believe the man did something so thoughtful.

Mogens waggles his eyebrows until Jesper averts his gaze with a scowl – because frankly, Mogens can't quite believe it either, and the reminder that he  _ did  _ makes him uncomfortable for reasons he isn’t interested in examining.

Mogens makes his way back to the bed and settles back in. "So, how 'bout that lie-in?"

"The sun  _ is  _ almost up…" Jesper hedges, but he doesn’t look any more enthusiastic about going outside now than he did ten minutes ago.

Ah, Mogens knows this game well: there’s nothing like the clarity of morning to make a man question the choices he made under the cover of night.

He can see that Jesper is conflicted, and he doesn’t really  _ want _ the man lying next to him if he doesn’t want to be there. But that might be what happens if Jesper thinks the offer to stay is contingent on being Mogens’ bed warmer. “If you don’t want to lay back down, you can sit by the fire,” he says, waving his arm lazily to emphasize that he doesn’t care what Jesper does. “ _ I’m _ going back to sleep. Feel free to join me. Don’t touch the liquor cabinet.”

“Sure,” Jesper says, but Mogens is already yawning and rolling over.

It’s quiet in the boathouse, save for the crackling fireplace and the metallic rattling of the wood stove. Birdsong threads along the wind, barely audible through the walls and windows. Mogens drifts in and out in tandem with the occasional sounds of Jesper puttering around the boathouse.

The bedclothes twitch behind Mogens, and he rolls over to see Jesper standing there. He sleepily lifts the blankets in invitation, but the look on Jesper's face tells Mogens he isn't there to cuddle. Mogens drops the blankets and rests his chin in his hand. "What's on your mind, sport?"

Jesper cuts right to the chase. "Are these your socks?"

Mogens peers over the edge of the bed to take a gander at Jesper's feet. "Sure are. Now, that's funny. I wonder how those got there?"

Jesper opens his mouth, then snaps it shut. "I… You…" he stammers, pointing his finger at Mogens like he wants to accuse him of something, but can't figure out what.

Mogens yawns. "You comin' back to bed or what?"

Jesper hesitates, and Mogens thinks for a moment the man will walk right out the door, inconsolable under the weight of so lofty a decision as whether or not to sleep in when he doesn't even  _ want _ to get to work.

"Oh, fine," Jesper says, and he climbs into bed and makes himself comfortable. "If Smeerensburg can go without a postman for… however long it's been since the last one, then they can put up with  _ this  _ one having a late start."

"That's the spirit," Mogens says, pulling Jesper closer – but the man tenses, and Mogens lets his hand hover. "Something wrong...?"

"No," Jesper says,. "It's nothing, I just... " With the way he cants his hips away, Mogens has pretty good guess as to what the issue might be.

Mogens grabs Jesper by the waist while he's fretting and tugs him flush to his front, and Jesper makes a sort of squealing sound. Mogens grins, tensing his abdominal muscles to press his stomach into Jesper's erection. Jesper's eyelids flutter, and he whimpers. "Doesn't feel like 'nothing' to me," Mogens says.

Is he imagining it, or does Jesper's dick throb in response to his voice?  _ Interesting. _

"I can explain," Jesper stammers.

Mogens raises his eyebrows and says, "Uh-huh?" in invitation for him to do just that, but Jesper can't seem to think of a way to justify his body's reaction. "Nothin', huh? How about I take a shot in the dark, then?"

Jesper swallows and stares, clutching Mogens' undershirt fretfully.

"You're a young man in your prime, cast adrift by circumstance, reaching for a handhold in a storm," Mogens says, releasing Jesper's waist and gesturing out to the wider world beyond the boathouse. He clenches his fist dramatically. "Cold and alone, you find yourself driven into the arms of the handsome ferryman. And in his arms, you discover a passion the likes of which you've never known..."

Mogens smiles down at Jesper's expression of disbelief. "How was that? Close to the mark? I  _ do  _ take constructive criticism, so please, let me know what you think! Don't hold back on my account."

Jesper's face has only gotten redder as Mogens spins his improbable yarn, but he looks more exasperated than mortified, now, at least. He drags a hand down one side of his face. "You're such an ass..."

"I'll take that under advisement," Mogens says cheerfully. "So… You want some help with that problem of yours?"

Jesper narrows his eyes mistrustfully, squinting at Mogens from between the fingers still splayed across his face. "If you're offering…"

"Oh, eagerly," Mogens assures him, squeezing him close for good measure and delighting in the little hitch in Jesper's breath.

"Then… yes?" He looks like he's waiting for the other shoe to drop. Like he doesn't trust Mogens to not turn this into a joke, or kick him unceremoniously out of bed and rescind the offer.

And that certainly wouldn't be out of character for the ferryman, but the temptation of watching the postman unravel in his hands is a much more tempting prospect at the moment. "Then I'll be happy to oblige," Mogens rumbles, and he slides a hand up Jesper's back. He digs his blunt nails into Jesper's spine on the way back down, pressing the man even more snugly against him in the process.

"Oh," Jesper sighs with a shiver, tangling the hand still clinging to Mogens' undershirt even tighter into the fabric. "Mogens…"

The sound of his name in Jesper's voice, rough with arousal, strikes Mogens more powerfully than he expects. Pleasure zings down his spine, and he groans, hastening to unbutton Jesper's pants.

The weight and warmth of Jesper's velvety cock is a treasure in Mogens' hand. He feels out its shape by touch, stroking its length lightly with the rough pads of his fingers: it's on the thin side, but the length is about average. Jesper jerks in his grip, following the movement of his hand with shallow thrusts. "Sensitive, aren't we?" Mogens murmurs, smiling in the face of Jesper's long-suffering expression. "How long has it been for you, hm?"

"Why are you like this," Jesper despairs.

"You don't wanna know," Mogens tells him. He'd hate to bring down the mood.

Speaking of which: Jesper is coming along awfully quick, and Mogens would hate for this to be over too soon. Giving into temptation might be the thing that drives Jesper away, bashful and stubborn as he is. As long as he's here and willing, Mogens intends to savor it. He releases Jesper's cock, much to Jesper's vocal disappointment, and rearranges them so Jesper is laying back on the rumpled sheets and Mogens is kneeling between Jesper's legs.

The sight of Jesper's cock, pleasantly pink and swollen and beading with fluid, is almost more delectable than the way it feels.

Almost.

"What're you–" Jesper protests, but he trails off with a groan when Mogens kneads his skinny thighs, digging in with his thumbs and making Jesper's cock jump.

"What? You think I'm gonna give you a handy and not at least take a gander at the goods?" he asks. His thumbs very nearly brush Jesper's cock as he strokes his hands upward, at which point Jesper's hips jerk violently. Mogens tightens his grip, pressing his thumbs into the dips of Jesper's pelvic bone. Jesper's sour expression twists into an unwilling smile as he laughs breathlessly.

"You're a menace," Jesper groans. He glances up at Mogens, and he seems unsure how to respond to the look of hunger in his eyes as Mogens stares with open appreciation at his cock. Mogens licks his lips slowly, really hamming it up, and Jesper whimpers and covers his face with both hands.  _ "C'mon…" _ he moans into his hands.

"Easy does it, Postman," Mogens hushes, and then because he thinks it's strange, maybe, to call him by his profession in bed, amends, "Jesper."

Jesper's cock is flagging gently from Mogens' teasing, but Mogens  _ does  _ catch sight of it twitching this time.  _ Very  _ interesting. Mogens cradles Jesper's leg in one hand and leans down to suck a wet kiss on his inner thigh. The jump in his cock is much more pronounced this time.

"Ah!" Jesper cries, squirming impatiently. "Mogens, for God's sake–" He throws his hands down to clutch at the sheets and glare properly at Mogens for making him suffer.

Mogens grins slyly, and he wraps a hand around Jesper's cock obligingly. His enormous hand completely engulfs the pink, throbbing thing, and Jesper collapses against the pillow with a whimper. Shame Mogens doesn't have any lube on hand. He'll have to improvise if he doesn't want Jesper to tap out because he's chafing.

Mogens strokes slowly, drinking up the small sounds Jesper makes. He hawks up enough phlegm to give his saliva a little more viscosity, and he leans over to drip a thick string of drool over Jesper's cock.

Jesper's reaction to the sudden slick is a sight to behold: a bunch of beautiful nonsense tumbles out of his mouth as it falls open, and he twists and jerks, hips jumping clear off the bed to thrust eagerly into Mogens' wet, slimy grip. "Oh, god, Mogens," Jesper pants, his narrow chest heaving with exertion. Mogens quickens his strokes, just a little, and Jesper throws his head back on the pillow. "Mogens,  _ please–" _

He hadn't exactly been  _ waiting  _ for a 'please' – frankly, Mogens doubted the word was even in the man's vocabulary until this moment – but when he gets it, he's struck by the heat it sends careening straight to his gut, and the desire to give Jesper whatever he asks for.

Yeah, this kid is definitely spoiled. Who could say no to  _ that? _

"Well, since you asked so nicely," Mogens says, and he picks up the pace properly, stroking and squeezing until the quiet boathouse is filled with the obscene sounds of slick, sliding flesh and Jesper's heavy breathing.

"Yes, please, God," Jesper moans, and hoo boy, any more of that and Mogens might have a problem of his own on his hands. He squeezes tightly, at which Jesper makes a delightfully  _ indescribable  _ sound, and he comes in spurts all over himself. Mogens strokes him through it, eliciting a few extra spurts and sensitive little shivers.

Jesper groans and makes a kind of flapping gesture with his hands. "Stop, oh my god, I can't…"

Mogens gives him a few more slow strokes for good measure, enjoying Jesper's plaintive whines, before he finally relents. He examines his hand, dripping with the aftermath of Jesper's spending. He doesn't mind wiping it on the sheets, but Jesper's watery eyes fluttering open gives Mogens an idea.

"Eugh, that's disgusting!" Jesper complains, but he still watches, transfixed, as Mogens licks Jesper's salty spend from his hands.

Mogens meets Jesper's gaze with half-lidded eyes as he continues to lick his hands clean. Jesper swallows thickly, having trouble with it for  _ some _ reason. "Well, you came so fast I didn't have a chance to taste you," Mogens explains.

"Taste...? W-Why would you even want to do something like that?" Jesper demands, but going by the way his face flushes and his flaccid cock twitches weakly, the idea appeals to  _ him  _ plenty.

"What can I say? I enjoy the finer things in life." His hand is just sticky now, absent of conspicuous evidence of Jesper's spending, so he wipes the rest of it on the sheets. Jesper grimaces in distaste. "Don't look at me like that. You're the one covered in your own mess," Mogens points out.

"What d'you mean, I'm–? My clothes!" Jesper despairs, pulling at his pants and sweater. "I'll have to take this to a launderer…"

Mogens pulls up the covers and lays beside Jesper, looking at him in bewilderment. "Smeerensburg doesn't  _ have _ a launderer, city boy. People do their own laundry here." He watches the contortions of disbelief and anguish on Jesper's expression, idly admiring the sheen of sweat on his face and the slowly fading color in his cheeks.

"I don't think I have a – uh, whatever people use to do their laundry."

Mogens knew Jesper was spoiled, but somehow this kid keeps managing to astound Mogens with his ignorance. "A washboard, tub, soap?" he volunteers flatly.

"Yeah, that. Maybe on the second floor…?" 

The post office does not, in fact, have any of those things. Mogens may be the first to know when a postman leaves the island on account of being the one to ferry them back to the mainland, but even then, the locals tend to get the jump on looting the place. And anything useful is usually gone by the time Mogens comes through to take a look for himself.

(What? A guy's gotta eat, and the Smeerensburg economy isn't exactly  _ booming.) _

"I wouldn't get my hopes up if I were you," Mogens says.

Jesper sighs, defeated. "Yeah, you're right." He swipes at the worst of the mess, grimacing. "Ugh…" Jesper looks torn.

"Just wipe it on the sheets."

"That's  _ completely _ unsanitary," Jesper complains, even though he saw Mogens doing it just moments ago.

Mogens sees another opportunity to fluster Jesper in the man's conflicted expression. "Give it here, then."

"What could you possibly want with–" Jesper cuts himself off when he sees Mogens' salacious grin. "You're going to do something gross again, aren't you?"

"Maybe," Mogens says, and he grabs Jesper's wrist and guides it to his mouth. He holds Jesper's gaze and licks the cooling spend from his fingers. Jesper remains unconvinced of the merits of this solution, right up until Mogens sucks his fingers into his mouth, his jagged teeth gently scraping skin.

"Nng," Jesper says as Mogens sucks softly on his fingers. They're clean now (or about as clean as the bacterial disaster in Mogens' mouth), but Mogens keeps it up, more intent on the act itself than the excuse to do it.

Jesper's hands are unsurprisingly soft, like he hasn't done a hard day's work in his life. The knowledge of that isn't as striking as the  _ sensation. _ Mogens can't help but drag his tongue over every inch of them: the silky finger pads, the subtle curve of his knuckles, the smooth manicured nails. Jesper even gets into it, fingers pressing tentatively on his tongue and tracing Mogens' jagged teeth. Mogens hums encouragingly, rewarding Jesper's adventurousness by nibbling on his fingers.

Jesper's hand jerks away, and Mogens releases his wrist. Jesper's fingers make a wet  _ pop  _ as they slip from Mogens' lips.

"Don't like the teeth?" Mogens laughs. "I'm not gonna bite your fingers off."

"Could've fooled me," Jesper grumbles, and Mogens pouts. His teeth aren't  _ that _ sharp. "Ah," Jesper says, "you've got a little…" He taps his own lip in explanation, then frowns when he realizes he just touched his mouth with the hand Mogens just had in  _ his _ mouth.

Mogens sticks his tongue out and catches the semen at the corner of his lip. He wipes his chin for good measure.

"You're disgusting," Jesper complains, wiping the rest of the mess from his sweater and onto the sheets. Mogens  _ tsks _ at the waste.

"That ain't news, chief. Any other complaints?"

"You're a tease," Jesper grumbles.

Mogens chuckles. Jesper thinks he's a tease, does he? He'll be eating those words next time – provided there is a next time. He tugs Jesper flush to his front, and Jesper grimaces – probably feeling all those wet patches – but Mogens can only grin at the feeling of Jesper's damp cock against his undershirt. "Go on," Mogens prompts.

"You're insufferable."

"Flatterer," Mogens says. "Anything else?" Mogens strokes a hand through Jesper's hair, enjoying the way the sweat-damp strands feel beneath his touch.

"... I've got nothing," Jesper concedes, having run out of insults for the time being. The afterglow is probably catching up with his brain.

"I'm sure you'll come up with something more creative in the morning," Mogens assures him.

Jesper frowns. "It  _ is _ morning, though."

"Not until we're up for the day, it isn't," Mogens says. "G'night, Postman."

Jesper snorts and shakes his head, but he also yawns, evidently of a mind with Mogens. "Good night, Mogens."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> jesper: oh god, did we have sex?
> 
> mogens: no... why, did you want to?
> 
> PLEASE don't @ me about Jesper still having an erection after they got up for the day, i got 10,000 words into writing this and had to cut things, okay!!
> 
> yes i know this chapter is just them bantering and screwing around in bed!! sue me!! take ur smut and be satisfied u filthy, filthy heathens 😞


End file.
